


The pavement always stayed beneath my feet before

by Arokel



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Additional Warnings In Author's Note, And a lot of Geralt and Jaskier talking through shit, Asexual Jaskier | Dandelion, Demisexual Jaskier | Dandelion, Enthusiastic Consent, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt's massive martyr complex strikes again, Gray-Asexual Jaskier | Dandelion, Insecure Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Masturbation, Misunderstandings, Non-Linear Narrative, Nothing bad! Just take care of yourselves, POV Alternating, Porn with Feelings, Scenting, Sex-Positive Asexuality, Sure ain't a ton of that in this fandom, Which is a bit dubcon since Jaskier doesn't ask if Geralt is okay with watching him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-25
Updated: 2021-03-28
Packaged: 2021-03-28 23:07:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30146988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arokel/pseuds/Arokel
Summary: Jaskier has become adept at looking at Geralt only as much as Geralt wants to be looked at - but it's harder, recently, when his eyes catch on Geralt's body without his notice. Geralt, for his part, has accepted the fact that Jaskier just doesn't want him, and that stings a little but he's fine with it. It's just a little confusing now that Jaskiersmellslike he does.Or, grey-ace Jaskier tries to figure out what being attracted to someone entails while Geralt loses his mind over what Jaskier smelling like attractionmeans.Rating is for the second chapter only.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 11
Kudos: 98





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> _Me, naively thinking this would be a quick 3k: neat, no problem, I can knock this out in two days tops and it definitely won't ruin my entire week_
> 
> I am... kind of nervous to post this, since it's a lot closer to my real life than most things I've written? So, uh, here is your gentle loving reminder that sexuality is fluid, ace people are not a monolith, and one person's experience of asexuality does not invalidate another person's. I wrote Jaskier pretty true to my own experiences, but if yours are different, that's okay! That said, if you don't like the idea of ace!Jaskier or aren't comfortable with reading about an ace character having sex or experiencing sexual attraction, this fic is not for you.
> 
> Also, since this is ye olden times, the depiction of asexuality in this fic might be triggering or just kind of uncomfortable for you, so please see the end notes for content warnings if you're concerned!

i.

Jaskier has never been discriminate in the people he finds beautiful. He’s never understood the concept of _ugliness,_ not really – or at the least, not on a cosmetic level. He’s seen enough ugliness of other sorts to know what _that_ looks like. But so long as a person has a good heart, Jaskier believes every imperfection can be beautiful when looked at the right way. It makes him an _excellent_ lover. He’s bolstered many a self-esteem in his time.

He has also never really understood the way other people seem to _fixate_ on beauty, in a sexual sense. Sex is sex, beauty is skin deep, et cetera et cetera. He’s just as happy to admire his partners clothed as naked. He’s never simply _looked_ at someone and thought, _this, I want this._

Geralt, though. Geralt is _fascinating._

Jaskier could look at him forever, probably. His entire body is a collection of contradictions – the hard set of his jaw, the softness of his hands when he cares for Roach; his silences and his reluctant smiles; his hunched shoulders when they walk through towns and the way that tension eases under Jaskier’s touch. He is a man of scars and stories, and Jaskier wants to know all of it.

It’s those shoulders that stop him. He sees the way people treat a Witcher in their midst, how they either don’t look at him at all or can’t seem to look away. And he knows Geralt well enough to see how both of those things bother him. It’s the shoulders, mostly.

So Jaskier tries to look at Geralt precisely a normal amount, whatever that means on any given day. On days when he’s served as a walking curiosity for jeering townsfolk, Jaskier keeps his gaze light and brief and only looks at Geralt when he absolutely needs to. On days when they’ve been given the cold shoulder at every turn, Jaskier makes a point of holding Geralt’s eyes when they meet, of watching him while they set up camp or prepare for bed. Just enough to remind him that there are people in the world who don’t see him as a monster; never so much that he feels _watched._

Jaskier has gotten very good at looking at Geralt only for as long as Geralt wants to be looked at. And if sometimes his eyes catch on Geralt and he never wants to look away, well, that’s his problem.

1.

They’ve been on the road for three weeks, and it’s come to the point where Geralt can’t take it anymore. Jaskier wants him. He didn’t before, and now he does, and the worst part is that he doesn’t even seem to be _aware_ of it. Or if he is, he’s doing a damn good job of pretending he’s not, because if Geralt couldn’t smell it on him he would never know.

It was fine while Jaskier smelled like desire _and_ uncertainty, because _uncertainty_ is the absolute least arousing trait Geralt can imagine in a sexual partner. But now Jaskier seems to have come to some shrugging resolution to just… accept the desire, and lust paired with that combination of calm and affection that is so unique to Jaskier is about to drive Geralt insane. Jaskier needs to get laid, and soon.

Dusk has fallen and Jaskier hums to himself as he tidies up the campsite. He smells perfectly ordinary now, but that’s only because he’s not looking at Geralt. Best to do it while his back is turned.

“You need to get laid,” Geralt says.

Jaskier stills, saddlebags in hand, and turns to stare at Geralt like he’s sure he heard wrong. “Pardon?”

“You haven’t slept with anyone in a while.”

“Yes?” Jaskier says, like it’s a question. “Because we haven’t spent the night at an inn in weeks and I don’t really fancy taking someone back to my place when _my place_ is some blankets on the ground four feet away from you?”

Well, that’s a fair point. Geralt will concede that one. “You seem… restless,” he tries. “I thought it might help.”

Suddenly, and rather unaccountably, Jaskier looks shifty. Or perhaps not _too_ unaccountably, if the reason that bafflement has faded from his scent is that he _does_ want Geralt and only recently came to terms with it. “Do I? Must just be starved for company; it gets a little lonely with only your unparalleled talent for making casual conversation.”

“So you… aren’t itching to fuck someone?” Geralt says. He frowns. He’s pretty sure Jaskier _is,_ and he’s pretty sure it’s him, and he’s pretty sure Jaskier’s lying if he says otherwise.

But then Jaskier looks at him like he’s missed some human social nuance again and says, “I’m never itching to fuck anyone, Geralt. I would think you of all people would know better than that,” and it’s so unexpected and so free of guile that Geralt can only assume it’s the truth. It just doesn’t make any _sense._

“What,” Geralt says.

And Jaskier upends his world again by answering, “I’ve never wanted anyone enough to care.”

Because that’s just not _true._

ii.

Most of the humans Geralt has encountered on the Path fit into two categories: those who stare at him like he’s some horrible roadside accident they can’t tear their eyes away from, and those who stink of fear at his approach and look away so determinedly it’s as if they think that he can’t see them if they can’t see _him._ Gawkers and ostriches. He can’t decide which he likes less on any given day.

There is a rare third category of people who see his muscled arms and his powerful thighs and stink of something quite other than fear. Geralt doesn’t particularly like that sort of scrutiny either, but it’s a necessary evil if he wants to get off with anyone other than his own hand.

Jaskier doesn’t look at him any of those ways. Geralt had thought he belonged to the third group, when they’d first met, but for all he looks at Geralt with undisguised curiosity when he thinks Geralt isn’t looking, Jaskier has always smelled calm and generally friendly. It’s incredibly refreshing, though Geralt will never tell him that.

It’s just that it’s also… disappointing. A little bit. Because Jaskier sleeps with _everyone,_ regardless of age, gender, or any other distinguishing characteristic. It’s as if he doesn’t have a type at all. Except, apparently, for the one thing he looks for in every partner: _not Geralt._ And that’s fine; Jaskier is allowed to have his preferences, even if ‘no witchers’ seems to be his _only_ preference. It just would have been nice, to know that a man who considers all of humanity worthy of love could include Geralt in that number.

It’s silly to let it get to him. The fact of the matter is that while Jaskier may smell as amiable as anyone Geralt has ever met, there’s only so far his liking for witchers extends, and _attraction_ is beyond that. It would be too much to ask of Jaskier to want that. And even if it weren’t, Geralt isn’t sure he’d fuck Jaskier anyway. He’s seen the way Jaskier’s usual sexual escapades go and he isn’t willing to be discarded once Jaskier grows tired of him. He…values Jaskier’s friendship too much for that.

It just would have been nice to be wanted, that’s all.

2.

Jaskier briefly contemplates claiming exhaustion and ending the night right there, but he owes Geralt more than that. He just doesn’t know what else to say. And so because he’s a coward, he watches the flames of the campfire play over Geralt’s face and waits for Geralt to speak instead.

“But I thought –“ Geralt says, brow tight in confusion and what Jaskier thinks might be – disappointment? Fuck. “Never mind.”

Fuck, now he’s gone and done it. He’s as good as told Geralt he doesn’t care about him. And Geralt was obviously laboring under the impression that Jaskier wanted him the way he’s afraid he actually might, and he’s disappointed he was wrong.

He probably thinks it’s because he’s a witcher. Gods damn it.

“It’s nothing personal,” Jaskier tries. “I just don’t… feel that way about people, in general.”

He’s come to accept that, at least. It took him a while to realize it, but there _is_ something that most people feel when they look at an attractive person beyond aesthetic appreciation, and Jaskier’s just been unaware of it this whole time. He still doesn’t _understand it_ , but he knows it exists.

“But you smell –“ Geralt starts again, then cuts himself off so abruptly it takes Jaskier a second to parse the final word. But oh, what a damning word it is.

“What?”

It’s too breathy. He meant it to sound like he just wasn’t sure he hadn’t misheard, but instead it sounds punched-out and devastated. Which is pretty much how he feels, but still.

Geralt won’t look at him. “It’s not important. I was wrong.”

Oh no. No no no. He wasn’t wrong; Jaskier is just stupid for forgetting that witchers can smell _everything_ and thinking he could ever keep _fucking pheromones_ a secret from Geralt. “What do I smell like, Geralt?” he demands, angry and not even sure why. “Tell me what I smell like.”

“Attraction isn’t desire. I shouldn’t have assumed,” Geralt says. He’s angry, too, from the sound of it, but Jaskier thinks it’s probably at himself.

Jaskier fucking _wilts._ He’s wondered for a while, but to hear Geralt say it – attraction. Huh. What an absolutely terrible way to have that confirmed for him. He swallows. “How long have you… how long have I smelled that way?”

“A few months, maybe?” Geralt says, perplexed. “I wasn’t sure at first. You seemed… confused.”

“I didn’t know,” Jaskier says quietly. Fuck. He feels so stupid. Geralt’s spent _months_ watching him figure himself out; how horrifyingly vulnerable is that?

Geralt doesn’t say anything. Jaskier appreciates that. He’s humiliated and angry and it’s not Geralt’s fault but it still _feels_ like he’s to blame, and Jaskier doesn’t think he can have a rational conversation about it right now. He scrubs his palms over his face.

“I can’t _believe_ you.”

“I won’t do anything about it if you don’t want to,” Geralt says, hesitant in a way that doesn’t suit him.

If Jaskier _wants_ to. Fuck.

“I’m going to bed,” Jaskier says. _“Alone.”_ And he leaves Geralt by the fire.

iii.

Roughly a month into his studies at Oxenfurt, Jaskier decided he was going to be a traveling bard. He picked a stage name, invested in ostentatious-yet-sturdy clothes, learned to hunt and clean game, and prayed it wasn’t making a terrible mistake. So far, it’s worked out pretty well for him.

The other thing he did, nearly concurrently, was start having a _lot_ of sex. Wandering bards were womanizers; everyone knew that. Better to get the practice in while it was still acceptable to be a fumbling teenager before setting out on the road. And if he dedicated himself to the study of it with a little more clinical focus than enthusiasm, well – he just wanted to be prepared.

That’s paid off, too. He’s always had a pretty face and a disarmingly kind charm, and he knows exactly when and how to wield it. Sure, he hasn’t always had the best judgement regarding who to use it _on,_ but what’s a few dozen near-misses with jealous spouses or protective guardians? That’s part and parcel of the whole persona.

And he _likes_ sex. He likes making people feel good, with his songs or his hands or his mouth or his words, and it’s never a _hardship_ to take someone beautiful to bed and take them to pieces, to see the hazy smile that means he’s done his job well. That smile is probably his favorite part of the whole rigamarole.

It does feel a bit like going through the motions, sometimes, but everyone has their off days and no one has ever called him on it, so Jaskier does what he does best: smiles, flirts, flatters, and performs. He never wants for bedmates, though to be honest he never really _wants_ bedmates, and his reputation as a flirt and a rake is firmly in place.

He doesn’t want to sleep with Geralt. It’s possible he could, if Geralt were just some unfairly handsome man he’d never met, but Geralt is… Geralt. He’s Jaskier’s best friend. He’s not some quick roll in the hay, and Jaskier won’t risk losing the grudgingly-bestowed trust Geralt places in him just for some sex, great as it would probably be. Jaskier can have sex with anyone he wants. He’s had a lot of lovers; he doesn’t have so many friends.

So he doesn’t want to sleep with Geralt.

3.

The morning dawns with an uncharacteristic quiet, because Jaskier has run out of conversational topics. Or at least Geralt is forced to conclude he has, because twice now during this lean breakfast he has opened his mouth to start one, caught Geralt’s eye, looked absolutely mortified, and subsided.

“I can’t believe you,” he mumbles to his knees, nervously picking the last bits of flesh from his pheasant. “How could I not know and _you_ did?”

He looks uncomfortable, ill-at-ease beside Geralt – almost like he’s trying to make himself so small that Geralt won’t notice him. Geralt _hates_ that. He smells upset, too, and beneath that bewildered and defensive and even now still a little bit like –

Jaskier makes a wordless sound of frustration. “Stop _sniffing_ me!” he cries, throws his pheasant to the dirt, and storms out of camp.

Geralt exhales. Picks up the pheasant. Breathes through his mouth and tries to figure out what to do now.

He can smell Jaskier in the woods, close enough that Geralt could be at his side in a moment if danger arose. Not _too_ angry, then, though his scent is a roiling mixture of shame and frustration and smarting pride. It’s easier to focus on that than the way he smelled before Geralt was stupid enough to breathe in too obviously and upset him again.

Jaskier kicks at a nurse log and swears when it’s firmer than he expected. Geralt closes his eyes and breathes in the scent of decaying wood and new growth and _everything else but Jaskier,_ because Jaskier hates that Geralt knows and so Geralt will do his absolute best to forget he does. Behind him, Roach whickers scornfully.

“Fuck,” Geralt says. “I know.”

It’s one thing to want Jaskier secure in the knowledge that Jaskier wants him back but not enough to do anything about it. It’s entirely another to hear Jaskier say, in no uncertain terms, that not only did he not _know_ he wanted Geralt, he in fact doesn’t care about _anyone_ enough to sleep with them out of anything more than the warped idea that that’s just what bards do. That’s a shitty fucking feeling.

Jaskier’s not the only one who wishes Geralt couldn’t smell him.

iv.

There’s something _weird_ about the way Jaskier fucks. Not that Geralt has room to judge; he’s sure many people would consider sex with a witcher weird on principle. But he can’t help thinking about it, every time he hears one of Jaskier’s assignations through the shared wall of an inn – which he’s pretty sure Jaskier knows he can hear, so he doesn’t feel too guilty about eavesdropping. It’s not as if Jaskier’s shy.

But it is just a little weird. Because Jaskier talks _all the time._ Ordinarily Geralt can’t get him to shut up without resorting to bribery. And he knows, from nights on the road where Jaskier _definitely_ doesn’t care that Geralt can hear him from across the dwindling fire, that Jaskier talks _to himself_ when he’s getting off without another person there to talk to.

When he does have another person to talk to, though, he mostly… doesn’t. He’s almost silent, and the noises he makes are noises of exertion or amusement, not pleasure. If he talks at all, it’s usually to ask how his partner is doing. It’s so uncharacteristic that it makes Geralt want to listen harder, more often, to see what about sex with someone else makes Jaskier so quiet.

But it’s always with _someone else,_ isn’t it, and Jaskier has never once displayed a sliver of interest in Geralt, so it’s none of Geralt’s business. Even if the longer he spends in Jaskier’s company, the more he would _like_ it to be his business. It’s not entirely out of academic curiosity that he listens for Jaskier’s voice on those nights.

It’s really none of his business. But sometimes, on nights when there’s enough coin for a room but not for two, Jaskier will come back late, smelling of sex and his partner’s satisfaction – but not his own. If Geralt wasn’t intimately familiar with the sound and scent of Jaskier’s pleasure, he’d think the bard was having performance issues.

Performance issues would lead to him smelling frustrated, though, and Jaskier never smells of that, either. He doesn’t smell like much of anything. Again, if Geralt didn’t know better, he’d say Jaskier was entirely indifferent to his own pleasure.

It makes the knowledge that he doesn’t want Geralt sting a little less, even if it only fans his curiosity further. Geralt knows what arousal smells like on Jaskier – has in fact smelled it so often tangled up in woodsmoke and pine sap that it’s almost comforting – but he has never, ever smelled like lust. It is a baffling but familiar constant in Geralt’s life.

Which is why it’s so disorienting when it changes.

4.

Jaskier seethes. It was probably stupid to storm out of camp like that, like he’s a child throwing a fucking tantrum, but he just needed to be… not around Geralt for a few minutes. He thought maybe things would look better in the morning, but if anything they’re worse. He’s jittery, out-of-sorts, and Geralt is no doubt back there eating _his_ pheasant, even thought he was _saving it for later._ And how _dare_ Geralt just sit there and _sniff_ him, like – well, like they never had that horribly awkward conversation last night, like Geralt hasn’t said –

He’s just antsy, that’s all. He hasn’t slept with someone in three weeks, just as Geralt oh-so-helpfully pointed out. He’ll just – he’ll go to a brothel, next chance they get, and have sex with someone who _isn’t Geralt,_ and everything will be fine again. And _because_ everything will be fine again, he’s going to march back into camp and snatch his pheasant from Geralt’s broad, gentle hands –

“Stop it,” he grits, squeezing his eyes tightly shut. He hears Geralt laugh, though it’s not very humorous. _Bastard._

“Which part?”

_“All of it.”_

“Going to have to be more specific than that,” Geralt says, and Jaskier can imagine the tiny quirk to his lips that means he thinks he’s being funny. Trying to lighten the mood, probably. It makes Jaskier want to kiss him. Fuck.

He stomps closer to take back the pheasant and does _not_ kiss Geralt. “The _smelling,_ and the… the knowing things about me _I_ don’t know.”

 _That_ sobers Geralt right up. Jaskier does feel a little bad about it, because clearly he’s hurt Geralt by being… whatever it is he’s being – petulant? Angry? Afraid of what he feels?

Oh. Afraid. That’ll do it.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt says. “I don’t know what I did wrong.”

“You didn’t,” Jaskier sighs. He doesn’t owe Geralt anything, really, especially not an explanation when he can barely explain his feelings to himself, but he hates to see that kind of fragile self-recrimination in Geralt’s eyes. “This is just all very new to me, and I know that must seem ridiculous, but I’m going through kind of a lot trying to work it all out. So I would appreciate it if you just… dropped it.”

“Okay,” Geralt says, wary eyes not leaving Jaskier. Now he’s _concerned._ Great.

Jaskier wishes the idea of not talking about it anymore didn’t make him feel so hollow.

v.

Jaskier has lived twenty-five years of his life happily unaffected by pretty much anything. Insults, compliments, jokes at his expense – it all rolls off his back. He might not be as stoic as Geralt, but he keeps a cool head in non-life threatening situations, and he’s proud of that even if Geralt mocks him for not taking life seriously enough. Whatever; unlike Geralt, who takes everything too seriously except for teasing him, Jaskier takes things seriously when they matter. Sex and all its assorted frivolity just isn’t one of those things.

This is all to say that Jaskier doesn’t put a lot of stock in other people’s fanciful ideas of what sex means. It’s just bodies; there’s none of that sparks-down-the-spine, eyes-locked-across-a-room magic women sigh over and Jaskier sings about. That’s all about as real as fairy tales or the monsters he _used_ to sing about before he met Geralt.

Sometimes he worries that there _is_ more to it, something everyone else understands and he’s just _missing_ somehow. But that’s ridiculous; Jaskier is the biggest bleeding-heart romantic out there. He’s just used up all his ridiculous fantasizing on that aspect of things and saved all his rationality for the physical side. He _likes_ that he doesn’t lose control of his wits in bed like his partners do. When his eyes and hands wander, it’s intentional.

So it’s a little frustrating to find his eyes wandering to Geralt without his intent. Firstly, because it’s confusing and it feels like losing control; secondly and more importantly, because he’s spent seven years getting _so good_ at not looking at Geralt when Geralt doesn’t want to be looked at.

If he could just notice it happening before it happens, he would stop. The fact that he can’t is… frustrating. It creeps insidiously beneath his breastbone, a kind of fluttering anxiety that maybe _this_ is what everyone else talks about. Maybe it’s just taken him twenty-five years to figure it out, and about _Geralt of Rivia,_ of all people.

He thinks he’d prefer it if he’d never figured it out at all.

5.

Jaskier’s scent on the late afternoon breeze is miserable and angry, and Geralt hates himself for making it that way. He doesn’t know what he _did_ apart from speak honestly, and he doesn’t know how to _fix_ it since apparently the truth was the wrong thing to say in the first place. But he’s not about to _lie._

Geralt must breathe too loudly in the space between one hoofbeat and the next, because Jaskier goes even more miserable, heavy-footed and tense as a bowstring.

“I can’t turn it off,” Geralt snaps. He doesn’t mean to, but Jaskier’s petty little _snit_ or whatever too-loud feelings he’s having has overstayed its welcome – not that it was ever really welcome in the first place, and Geralt still doesn’t know what it’s about _anyway._ “You’re attracted to me, you don’t want to do anything about it, it’s fine. I’m used to it.”

He winces, high up on Roach where Jaskier hopefully can’t see it. It’s a bad idea to let himself be bitter about it where Jaskier can hear, even if he is; this day started out badly but it will end _terribly_ if they spend all of it at loggerheads.

It’s clear that the bitterness doesn’t escape Jaskier, going by the way his head jerks up from its determined slump to regard Geralt with surprise and something like… apology.

“It’s not that I,” he begins, then he flushes and shuts his mouth – but he doesn’t look away. “It’s just… a shift, to lean that there’s something wrong with you and you were the last person to know it.”

Geralt pulls up short on Roach’s reins, bristling with a protective fury he’s not in a place to fully examine, emotionally. “There’s nothing wrong with you,” he says, and it comes out much harsher than he means it to. Jaskier staggers back.

“What do you call it, then, when everyone around you feels something and you can’t?” Jaskier says, regaining his footing and his aplomb.

“Not _wrong,”_ Geralt repeats. This line of conversation is making him so incredibly uncomfortable and he doesn’t know how to remove himself from it. “Witchers don’t feel a lot of things. It’s just different. And you can. You do, about –”

Jaskier glares, and Geralt shuts up. He listens to Jaskier sigh, the rebuttal still on his tongue falling away to resigned silence.

“That’s – true, I suppose,” Jaskier says.

Geralt should maybe be ashamed of playing into the unfathomable sympathy Jaskier has for the plight of the humble witcher, but it’s easier to believe Jaskier settled down out of a reluctance to insinuate there’s anything wrong with Geralt than because Geralt is right about what Jaskier… feels.

But he doesn’t want to end this conversation, or this day, with Jaskier feeling like he ought to be ashamed for any of it. So, teeth-grindingly painful as it is to continue, Geralt says, “if you want to –“

“I do not,” Jaskier says, with a weary finality, “want to talk about it with _you.”_

Well, alright.

Jaskier hangs his head, and Geralt stares straight ahead and tries to pretend he isn’t as miserable about the whole situation as Jaskier smells, and they walk on in silence.

vi.

Geralt has long since come to terms with the fact that, unlike every other human Geralt has encountered in his decades on the Path, Jaskier simply wants to be his friend. Is glad of it, even. Jaskier doesn’t seem to cultivate many long-lasting friendships; in this, Geralt is unique. He has a part of Jaskier no one else has, and that’s more than enough.

Until it isn’t, because, slowly but surely, Jaskier’s calm, affable scent begins to change. It’s barely perceptible at first and Geralt would think he was imagining it if he didn’t know Jaskier so well. Little pinpricks of spice and heat: lust, clear as day. Fainter than Geralt’s ever smelled it on a human, but unmistakable nonetheless.

It drives him _mad._

It happens at the oddest moments: Geralt, shrugging on a jacket while Jaskier watches him impatiently from the road, that distraction-lust-confusion smell fizzing out almost as quickly as Geralt notices it. Jaskier, groggy and complaining as Geralt stretches out hunt-stiff muscles and smells the brief change in the morning air. Once, it arises while Geralt is washing blood out of a shirt, half-nude and sweat-soaked, but that seems to be a fluke.

Lust, Geralt knows, is not an all-or-nothing state. It comes and goes, rises and falls almost like music. But it _does_ have rhythms, patterns, familiar channels and outlets. Which is why it’s so odd that Jaskier, the best musician Geralt knows, doesn’t fit into any of them.

The thing about it that’s even odder, the thing that stops Geralt from saying anything about it, let alone _acting_ on it, is that those pinpricks are always, invariably, followed immediately by the scent of confusion. And as they increase in frequency and strength, that confusion is joined by an even fainter tinge of self-recrimination.

Geralt has never met a human who smelled so confused by his own desire. But he’s met countless who smelled ashamed of the fact that it was for _him._ That hurts even more than thinking Jaskier didn’t want him at all.

But he’d rather not bring it up and risk losing Jaskier’s friendship unless he absolutely has to.

6.

“It’s just that you fuck a lot of people,” Geralt says. Sitting as he is on Roach and shadowed in the fading light, Jaskier wouldn’t be able to see Geralt’s expression even if Jaskier were looking anywhere other than the ground directly beneath his feet, but he would bet Geralt looks as pained to be saying it as Jaskier feels hearing it.

Jaskier shrugs, suddenly somehow even more uncomfortable than he has been so far today. He wouldn’t have thought that possible, but it turns out he possesses the capacity for a boundless discomfort when it comes to discussing his sexuality with Geralt-of-fucking-Rivia. “That’s just what bards do. I can’t very well _not_ sleep around.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt says slowly, heavy and dangerous like he might personally hunt down and maim everyone Jaskier’s ever slept with if the answer is no, “do you want the sex you’re having?”

“Please, Geralt, do you think anyone can force _me_ into bed?” Jaskier scoffs, tearing his gaze from his dusty boots to scowl at Geralt. He may not be as strong-willed as a witcher, but he’s a bit offended that Geralt thinks he has _quite_ so little spine.

Geralt blinks at him and makes an odd sort of motion with his head, a sort of fusion between a nod and an inquiring tilt. Mostly, it just means that he’s looking down at Jaskier from an angle which is almost _coquettish,_ and that’s… hard to contend with, in this moment. “But do you _want_ it?”

Geralt sounds confused. Jaskier _feels_ confused. No one’s ever asked him that in so many words before. He thinks he ought to answer yes, because of course he does. That idea that he might have had sex he didn’t want is… unpleasant.

“Maybe?” he says, hating it. But there _is_ a difference in how he’s always looked at his partners and the way he _wants_ when he looks at Geralt, and he can’t be so sure anymore. It scares him, and he knows Geralt can tell, _and_ he knows Geralt probably thinks it’s _Geralt_ he’s afraid of, but he can’t help it. It’s all just a lot and he hasn’t had a second to himself to think about it.

“It’s okay,” Geralt says suddenly, shocking Jaskier back into the present moment, “if you don’t want to fuck me.”

“I don’t think I do,” Jaskier admits, and he doesn’t let himself feel guilty for saying it. Because Geralt is right; attraction isn’t desire, and all of this is _way_ too new to be at all comfortable.

“Okay.”

And that should be the end of it; Jaskier should let it lie and save them both the discomfort of prolonging this horribly intimate therapy session, but… it’s not Geralt’s fault he knew before Jaskier did. Maybe it’s even a blessing in disguise, because at least now Jaskier knows he’s not imagining it. He doesn’t owe Geralt anything, but he could, maybe, be honest anyway. “But if I did want to fuck someone, hypothetically, it would probably be you.”

Geralt smiles at that, just the tiniest bit, like he can’t help it. Then his lips twitch back into blankness and he shakes his head – admonishing himself for being pleased that Jaskier might shift his own boundaries just for Geralt’s sake, Jaskier thinks. But he did look pleased, for that fleeting moment, and the way Jaskier’s heart skipped a beat at the sight of it and his cheeks went hot at the idea of putting that smile on Geralt’s face again…

Yeah, maybe.

vii.

Jaskier is potentially losing his mind. There aren’t a lot of other explanations for why sometimes his gaze snags on Geralt and _stays,_ when Geralt is doing nothing to merit looking at all. Sometimes Jaskier catches himself staring at Geralt’s hands or his chest or his mouth or – the worst – his _ass,_ like he’s a piece of meat and Jaskier is a creep at a bar. He hates it.

But he doesn’t hate the way his body sometimes goes warm when Geralt brushes against him by accident or, gods help him, touches him on purpose. It’s unfamiliar, hard to pin down – a fizzy, thrumming kind of warmth he usually only associates with…

Oh fuck.

This is it, the thing everyone else understood and Jaskier brashly assumed he was too worldly and self-assured to fall prey to. This is why people make stupid mistakes and sleep with people shouldn’t, the way Jaskier pretends to do. Geralt is still beautiful; always has been. Jaskier hasn’t lost his ability to appreciate everyone for the beauty they were born with. But he’s now also, for lack of a term that doesn’t make Jaskier squirm with guilt and something else terrifyingly new, _hot._

This is _exactly_ what losing one’s mind feels like.

And he feels terrible about it; of course he does, because how does this make him any better than the people who gawk at Geralt when they pass through towns? How is it any different from looking at Geralt and seeing only what he can give Jaskier, if Jaskier asked him to, rather than who he is as a person?

Because Geralt might give it to him if he thought it would make Jaskier happy, and that’s terrifying. Jaskier doesn’t like being subject to feelings he can’t control or think his way through. He doesn’t like how much the idea of asking thrills him. But he can’t stop _looking_ at Geralt, and a small, guilty part of him doesn’t even want to stop.

It feels like tripping over his own feet, or missing a step, or jerking awake from a dream wherein you’ve slept too late. It makes him lose the thread of his thoughts and leaves him discomfited and edgy until he can gather them again, and he _knows_ Geralt can hear the way his heart pounds, too close to anxiety.

He’s attracted to Geralt.

Fuck.

Geralt can never know.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a small chapter deletion snafu; don't worry about it.

1.

They don’t talk about any of it; Jaskier thinks he might go up in confused, humiliated flames if they did. But now that Geralt knows – or at least now that Jaskier knows Geralt knows – and since Geralt seems to be mostly okay with the whole knowing thing, Jaskier allows himself to believe it’s probably fine to look. Respectfully. So long as Geralt continues not to mind.

Geralt continues not to mind. Jaskier thinks he even _likes_ being looked at that way, maybe, when it’s coming from Jaskier and not some greedy-eyed human who doesn’t know and respect Geralt the way Jaskier does. Now that Jaskier is looking on purpose, he can see the way Geralt preens a little under the attention, like he’s pleased that Jaskier likes what he sees. Vain man. Although a witcher probably has the right to relish _any_ approving look, considering how disapproving the rest of the looks tend to be.

“Stop trying to figure me out,” Geralt grunts, hunched over Roach’s saddle. “I’m not that deep.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, my dear witcher,” Jaskier says loftily, pushing down the flare of guilt that rises in his chest at having been caught looking. “And besides, I’m trying to figure _myself_ out. Unraveling your fascinatingly stoic psyche is just a pleasant bonus.”

Geralt ignores him. “Thought you were angry with me.”

“I’m very changeable,” Jaskier says, and then winces. That makes it sound like this – like Geralt – is just some flight of fancy, instead of the earth-shattering revelation it – and Geralt – actually was and continues to be.

Geralt’s lips twitch up into the tiniest of half-smiles. “Every idiot who’s ever fallen in love with you would say otherwise.” Then the smile fades and something haunted and sad takes its place, and Jaskier gets it.

Geralt, the biggest idiot of them all, believes that Jaskier could possibly fuck him and leave. Or that he _won’t_ fuck him, but the fascination will run its course and he’ll leave anyway. It is unbearably sweet and so, so misguided. Jaskier’s heart flips over in his chest in a swell of something entirely other than guilt, which is… Jaskier will ignore _that_ feeling, forever, probably. That way lies heartbreak.

“Oh, Geralt darling, I didn’t know you cared,” he croons, a deflecting tactic. Geralt already knows too much about him.

“I don’t,” Geralt says shortly. But he does, he does. Jaskier will have to be careful of that.

But he can still look, and Geralt still lets him look, and with every day that passes Jaskier becomes more resolved to make Geralt see that there is no way Jaskier is leaving him and that maybe, possibly, he might want to do more than just look.

i.

Jaskier is learning so many new things about himself these days – most of them, thankfully, not as stress-inducing as those first few revelations. For instance: there is a difference between looking at Geralt and looking at Geralt and _imagining._ He’s been doing a lot of imagining.

So _fantasizing_ is just yet another bullet point in the growing list of things he has always assumed were just – well, fantasy, but now knows to be achingly, devastatingly real. He finds himself constantly distracted by Geralt’s hands and the question of how they would feel on his body, or Geralt’s hair and how smooth or coarse it might be between his fingers. Idle speculations, but addictive in the sly heat that steals through him at the thought of finding out the answers.

Touching himself is the same as it’s always been; he’d been a bit worried that would change and he’s relieved it hasn’t. But thinking about Geralt while he does it may, possibly, just a little bit, be a mind-bendingly different experience. He probably ought to feel bad about using his very dear friend that way, but he consoles himself with the idea that lots of people probably think about their friends in a sexual sense. It may feel invasive and kind of slimy, but it’s not _wrong._

It’s just so easy to let his hand drift down his body and his thoughts drift to Geralt just across the campfire – easily close enough to know what Jaskier is doing, and that’s probably putting him in an uncomfortable situation, but to the extent of Jaskier’s knowledge Geralt has never minded knowing before. The more things change, Jaskier supposes. He wonders if Geralt can sniff out this change, too.

It makes Jaskier harder than he could have thought possible without actively touching himself, makes him gasp without any conscious knowledge of doing it. He can almost imagine an answering inhale from Geralt’s side of the fire.

Geralt never does anything more than breathe, but Jaskier imagines liquid-gold eyes watching him through the flames anyway and comes with what he worries might be Geralt’s name on his lips. In the morning, he greets Geralt cheerfully and tries not to feel weird about it.

2.

Jaskier doesn’t want to talk about it, which is fine. What he _wants_ , it seems, is just to keep looking at Geralt with that accusatory heat, which is… also fine. It’s fine because Geralt will _make_ it fine. Jaskier clearly doesn’t know what he’s doing with those looks, so Geralt will not read anything into them and he certainly won’t take advantage of them.

He just smells _so good_ now that things are settled between them. It drives Geralt crazier than the looks did. Still do.

“You’ve ruined me for anyone else, it seems,” Jaskier says cheerfully as they make their way through the main square of town – a town where, Geralt remembers with a wince, he stupidly told Jaskier to get laid. A cruel irony, that one. “All of these beautiful people, and not a spark. Maybe you’re just special.”

He doesn’t sound all that put out about it.

And he calls Geralt _special._ Geralt hates the way his chest warms at the endearment. That’s what he wanted from Jaskier, isn’t it? To own a part of him no one else did? And now he does, and he feels like shit about it.

“Maybe I’m just the first,” he says, to bank that possessive fire. No one, especially not Jaskier, deserves to bear the brunt of that. It doesn’t work. “You don’t seem upset.”

“I doubt it would make me a better lover. Hard to improve upon perfection,” Jaskier says with an easy shrug, and this time he must know exactly what he’s doing when he leers at Geralt; Geralt has seen that face on him countless times. That one is on purpose.

It makes Geralt’s stomach turn. Jaskier rarely smells of uncertainty these days, and when he does it’s usually followed quickly by intrigue. But intrigue is just that; it can’t erase the months when Jaskier smelled like anxiety and self-doubt. Geralt won’t fool himself into believing that Jaskier’s coming to peace with it means anything more than what it seems on the surface just because Geralt wants it to.

And he doesn’t like the idea that Jaskier might be turning that practiced, fake gaze on him just to test it out. “You don’t have to do that,” he says, unable to help how sullen it sounds.

Jaskier blinks at him. “Sleep with people? I was just startled when you asked, Geralt; I’m not doing anything I don’t want to do. I like making people feel good.”

“Look at me like that. The way you look at other people.”

Geralt doesn’t know exactly what he means by that, but Jaskier’s posture loosens and his eyes go soft and genuine. “Sorry, I didn’t realize – it’s just habit. I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I’ll stop.”

And yes, that is what Geralt asked him to do, but to stop looking _entirely?_ That’s the last thing Geralt wants. “I don’t mind the way you usually look at me,” he says, before his brain can catch up with his mouth. “I don’t mind when it’s you.”

“I’ll – keep that in mind. Thanks, Geralt,” Jaskier says, even softer, and Geralt doesn’t know what he’s done worthy of thanks but he’ll take them nonetheless.

Jaskier doesn’t sleep with anyone that night, and when they set out on the road again in the morning, he stares brazenly and only grins when Geralt catches him at it. Geralt has no idea what to make of it.

ii.

The first time Jaskier comes with a whisper of Geralt’s name on his lips, Geralt thinks he’s imagined it. There is no way Jaskier, who speaks so calculatedly and dispassionately in the bedroom, would say something so damning where he knows Geralt can hear him.

Unless he can’t help it.

The idea that ever-controlled Jaskier might be so overcome thinking about him settles heavy and burning in Geralt’s stomach. He finds himself listening, the next night, and the next, for that bitten-off _Geralt,_ so quiet it’s possible Jaskier thinks he _can’t_ hear it. He doesn’t really expect it to happen again. The first time was an accident, if he hasn’t conjured it entirely out of wishful thinking, and Jaskier is too self-aware to do it twice.

It happens again. Still just an unvoiced breath, but firmer, deliberate in the way Jaskier’s lips shape the word. Almost as if he’s trying it out.

Geralt has never, not once, heard Jaskier say someone’s name in the throes of passion. He has always assumed Jaskier’s fantasies were faceless, nameless lovers, in keeping with how little interest Jaskier always seemed to show in keeping them around. Now, though, he knows that there were no fantasies, and that _his_ is the first name Jaskier has said like this in the time Geralt has known him.

He would _kill_ to know what Jaskier is thinking.

Knowing Jaskier, he’s probably imagining Geralt watching him. Jaskier is a performer to his very core and he knows his own appeal, so it only stands to reason he might get off on the idea of being watched. And being watched is safer than being touched, which – taking into account how poorly Jaskier reacted to the suggestion that they might sleep together – is probably too much for him to contemplate at this exact moment.

Geralt could content himself with watching very easily. The smell of Jaskier-and-woodsmoke floods his senses and turns his cock painfully hard, but he refuses to give in to the desire and follow Jaskier’s example. Not when the only picture he could possibly envision at the moment would be Jaskier’s. It would feel like taking advantage.

So instead he listens, and each time Jaskier says _Geralt_ it sounds more and more like an invitation Geralt has to steel himself not to accept.

3.

Jaskier is slowly but surely coming to the conclusion that yes, okay, he does want to act on this attraction after all. There are only three problems with that.

Firstly, it’s only been a month or so since Geralt confirmed for him that it _was_ attraction and he got very upset and barely spoke to Geralt for a full day. That might be enough time for Jaskier to come fully around to the idea, but it’s probably not enough time for Geralt to believe him if he says so. And that’s very chivalrous and lovely, but a bit of a wrench in Jaskier’s quest to continue figuring this whole attraction thing out.

The second problem is that given how carefully Geralt holds himself and how reluctantly he touches Jaskier, he either still believes Jaskier will sleep with and then discard him, or he’s being noble again and has convinced himself he’d be taking advantage. Which he wouldn’t be, of course, but the one constant of Geralt of Rivia is that he will always assume the worst of himself.

The third problem…

“That innkeeper was nicer than usual,” Jaskier says brightly, as they take the narrow stairs up to the room they’ve been directed to with only a modicum of sneering in Geralt’s direction. Definitely progress. “Your gruff charm is finally bearing fruit.”

Geralt grunts, though whether it’s supposed to be a reply or it’s just because he’s carrying Jaskier’s bags as well as his own is unclear. “Doubtful. _You’re_ charming.”

It’s a compliment, not sexual at all, and yet it brings an embarrassed heat to Jaskier’s cheeks. He covers by spinning in place on the step to grin down at Geralt, fluttering his eyelashes like a particularly over-the-top bawd. Geralt nearly drops Jaskier’s bag in his haste to look away. “I’m _flattered,_ truly, Geralt; however can I repay you for your kind words?”

Problem three is that Jaskier wouldn’t know what to do even if problems one and two resolved themselves.

This is all just so _new_ , and Jaskier may want it so badly he can taste it, but that’s also new. What if he loses his head and forgets everything he’s ever learned about being a good lover and makes a fool of himself? What if he says something embarrassing because he can’t help it, the way he can’t help saying Geralt’s name even though he _knows_ Geralt can probably hear it?

The idea of letting go of control is just a little scary, but it’s Geralt. Geralt has enough control for the both of them.

“Don’t jerk off while I’m trying to sleep,” Geralt says, and shoulders past him up the stairs and into the room.

“You –“ Jaskier gapes, aghast, then hurries after Geralt, voice shrill with embarrassed outrage. “You _knew,_ and you never said, you –“

Geralt sets their bags down beside the bed with a weary _thud_ and doesn’t look at Jaskier, although his shoulders go very tense at the slam of the door behind them. “You knew I knew. Don’t pretend you’re upset I listened.” He sounds cross, but his shoulders are still so tight and so hunched, almost as if he’s kicking himself for having listened, no matter what he says.

“Upset? No no no, Geralt, far from it; I’m not upset, I’m –“

What is he?

Awfully, shamefacedly aroused, mostly. His fantasies of Geralt watching him were _right,_ and that’s… that’s heady. Jaskier is a performer at heart. Even before all of this, that would have been a turn-on. Now it’s almost unbearably exciting.

Geralt can definitely tell. He sighs, eyeing the lone bed with clear resignation. They haven’t shared a bed since… since everything started, really, and Jaskier, at least, would like very much to know what sleeping next to him is like now.

But he can’t help but feel guilty watching Geralt rub his temples, his posture slumped in exhaustion. “What are the chances of you _not_ smelling like lust all night?”

“Low,” Jaskier admits. “Sorry.”

Geralt looks so terribly conflicted. “It’s fine,” he says finally, although it doesn’t sound fine. “I’ll deal.”

Well. That clears up absolutely nothing.

iii.

Jaskier never really noticed how much Geralt did or didn’t touch him, prior to all of this. He assumes it was a fairly normal amount of touching for a situation wherein one party is an emotionally stunted monster-slayer and the other party is a cheerfully flirtatious bard, so it probably evens out.

Now, though, he notices _every single time_ Geralt touches him. It’s exhausting.

And they’re not _important_ touches, either; Geralt taps him on the arm to get his attention in loud places, or brushes a hand along his back to direct him through crowds, or kicks his ankle beneath the table to shut him up before he can make an off-color joke. Slight, fleeting, and meaningless. And Jaskier _loses his mind_ over every single one.

Geralt’s hands send zinging little frissons of heat through Jaskier’s veins and directly into the pleasure center of his brain. Once, Geralt grabs him by the arm while he’s dressing, and the feel of Geralt’s thumb brushing over the inside of his elbow nearly makes him trip over nothing but his own surprise. Since when are _elbows_ erogenous zones?

It’s absolutely thrilling and inexplicable and he wants so much more of it.

It is also, to be honest, a little embarrassing, because Jaskier has been done with puberty for a number of years now and he _really_ shouldn’t be forced to hide inappropriate erections just because Geralt sat down too close to him.

It’s as if letting himself think about Geralt in one context – with his dick in hand just six paces away from the man in question, which is actually, come to think of it, kind of a questionable decision on its own – has opened some sort of floodgates and now he thinks about Geralt in _every_ context. So the press of Geralt’s disgustingly muscled arm against Jaskier’s shoulder and along his side on a small bench in a crowded tavern sets his mind spinning and his heart racing and there’s absolutely nothing he can do about it.

If Geralt hasn’t noticed the whole fantasizing-about-him-from-across-a-campfire thing, there’s no way he can miss this. Sometimes Jaskier catches him breathing in just a little deeper than usual and knows he can smell whatever acrobatics are going on in Jaskier’s pheromones. And that is incredibly humiliating in most ways, but in a select few it’s… kind of exciting.

But Geralt doesn’t do anything about it either. So Jaskier savors every accidental touch and tells himself this is just how unrequited desire goes. Everyone else deals with it; he can deal with it too.

4.

Geralt’s nerves are worn threadbare. It’s been a long day, he’s tired of talking, and he just wants to fall asleep with Jaskier beside him in this godsawfully tiny bed and wake up praying Jaskier has been less of a cuddler in the night than he usually is. It’s already bad enough that they both forego shirts on summer nights; Jaskier bare-chested beside him is a very specific kind of torture.

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier says quietly.

Geralt sighs. This, now? Gods, alright, fine. “It’s fine, Jaskier.”

Jaskier huffs a laugh and shifts onto his side in the too-narrow space between Geralt and the wall, sleepy gaze caressing Geralt’s shoulder. Geralt can no longer tell whether that’s on accident or not. “No, I am. I’ve been unfair to you lately. I wasn’t mad at _you,_ not really, but I didn’t know who _to_ be mad at and I took it out on you anyway. So if you’re still worried I’m upset, I’m not.”

 _Far from it_ , Jaskier said, the last time they had this conversation – a conversation which Geralt honestly finds less pleasant than having his teeth pulled out. _Not upset, but…_ but what? Geralt knows what he would like Jaskier to be instead. And he knows how Jaskier smells.

Attraction and desire are not the same thing. Geralt knows that; he’s the one who said it in the first place. But Jaskier is warm and languid and sleepy and in a soft bed in the dark of night those faint sparks of _want_ ping against Geralt’s senses like summer rain, and it’s easier to believe that Jaskier might be sure of himself after all.

“Not like I haven’t taken my bad day out on you before,” he says, steering them absolutely straight. If this conversation veers into uncharted territory, it will be because Jaskier turned the ship. “It seemed… distressing. I didn’t blame you for lashing out.” Not for too long, at least. Maybe at first.

The back of Jaskier’s hand brushes against Geralt’s elbow as Jaskier shifts again and Geralt swallows reflexively. Unbidden, his mind conjures up the tiny, shocked gasp Jaskier made when Geralt touched _his_ elbow, weeks ago, and the slow, confused roll of lust that followed it. It smelled just as good back then as Jaskier does now, but after the weeks they’ve had there’s no way he can rely on his nose to know what Jaskier –

“I know you can smell it on me,” Jaskier says, amusement turning his voice dark and thick, and he laughs aloud when Geralt flinches back guiltily. “Sorry, it’s probably distracting.”

Distracting is one word for it.

Laughter notwithstanding, Jaskier seems to sense that Geralt isn’t quite comfortable with the current trajectory of their conversation and pulls his hand back towards his own chest. Geralt holds his tongue and lies as still as he can with the warmth of Jaskier at his side like a forge. He’s playing with fire, and he really should stop before Jaskier decides this tentative flirtation isn’t fun anymore.

Jaskier, as ever, doesn’t require any verbal output from Geralt to hold a conversation with him. “I was lashing out because I’ve spent a really long time – years, in fact – priding myself on the fact that I don’t look at you the way everyone else does, and now that’s not true anymore. I know you don’t like being objectified. As a monster or whatever else.”

“You think I’m upset because you’re attracted to me?” Geralt says, so surprised that he turns onto his side against his better judgment to look Jaskier in the eye. This misconception can’t stand. Jaskier should never be allowed to believe that being attracted to someone is _bad._

“Yes?” Jaskier says, but he doesn’t sound sure about it, “You always look like you’ve just drunk one of your horrible potions whenever I flirt with you, whether I mean it or not. And it must be irritating to smell – to know, all the time.”

“Jaskier, I’m a century old. I’m _very_ good at ignoring information I don’t need. If smelling you bothered me, I’d just stop trying to,” Geralt says reasonably. He’s not prepared for the _torrent_ of lust-confusion-hope that crashes over him in reply.

It did sound kind of like that, didn’t it. He spun the wheel too hard.

“So, to be clear,” Jaskier says slowly, “you only noticed my scent changing because you were paying attention? Because you… make a point of knowing what I smell like?”

“It helps me understand you,” Geralt says, and he can’t help shifting awkwardly in place. It feels like a weird thing to admit in bed together like this, but he doesn’t know what else to say.

“Sorry?”

Jaskier is very close and his hand is inching back towards Geralt’s arm and Geralt can hardly think to answer properly. “You use so many unnecessary words to talk about your feelings. You smell simpler, usually. I was… worried, when you started to smell like _you_ didn’t understand what you were feeling.”

Jaskier laughs at him again, and it’s delighted and pleased and he still smells like he wants Geralt and his hand is so gentle where it rests on Geralt’s elbow, and Geralt feels like he’s drowning in perfume.

iv.

A new, gut-wrenching development in Geralt’s life is that not only does Jaskier now look at him like he’s daydreaming about doing incredibly filthy things to Geralt at all hours of the day, he now also fucking _shivers_ whenever Geralt touches him. He can’t even get Jaskier’s attention in a crowded room without the accompanying bloom of lust knocking him out of commission for a good few seconds.

Geralt has spent the majority of the past three weeks in a near-constant state of frustrated arousal.

It’s just that he can smell Jaskier, all the time, and that’s a problem. That’s what got him in trouble in the first place: looking too hard for hints of an attraction he was certain wasn’t here, and then when it _was_ there being an absolute dick about it and making Jaskier feel ashamed of his own sexuality. Stellar going, really.

But what is he supposed to do, when every time their hands touch Jaskier smells like he wants Geralt to bend him over a table or a railing or a fucking tree stump and take him right then and there? Ignore it, obviously, and that’s what Geralt is doing; it’s just… agonizing.

Worse, he’s not sure Jaskier realizes what he’s doing. Oh, he knows Geralt can smell it; their conversation three weeks ago was mortifying enough to permanently cement that knowledge in Jaskier’s brain. Geralt hopes. But Jaskier maybe doesn’t realize what smelling like that _does_ to Geralt. How could he, when he’s only just learned what desiring another person feels like?

So Geralt is ignoring it. Because Jaskier might not know the difference between _desire_ and _desire to_ yet, and Geralt refuses to take advantage of that naivete. He’ll just grit his teeth and utilize every inch of his witcher self-control to will away any stubborn, sympathetic arousal and ignore the fact that Jaskier isn’t even trying to tamp down his own.

But he’ll still let Jaskier look at him. He would never deny Jaskier that.

5.

This newest revelation that Geralt cares enough about Jaskier’s emotional wellbeing to do his weird scenting thing to keep tabs on it – and of course the reminder that Geralt is so bad with words that he has to rely on it in the first place – makes Jaskier feel warm and cared-for and oddly… gooey. In an emotional sense, but also in a very real, immediate sense as the warmth goes liquid and burning on its way down into his belly and lower. He wonders if Geralt can smell it.

“And people say witchers don’t care,” he says smugly, and then, when Geralt just hums in reply, adds, “what do I smell like now?”

He’s fully aware of how he smells, but he’s curious what Geralt’s answer might be. Geralt hasn’t made any moves and it seems like he might never, but it would be nice of him to _acknowledge_ it, at least. Just so that Jaskier knows it’s totally normal and Geralt isn’t suffering through Jaskier’s weird, overactive libido.

But it’s just curiosity, and so he doesn’t _mean_ to pitch his voice lower and suggestive; it just happens. It’s never happened on accident before.

Geralt hums again. “Surprise.”

“Surprise what?”

Admittedly Jaskier will never understand Geralt’s subtle sense of humor, but he doesn’t _think_ Geralt has done anything surprising in the last… oh, three days or so. Aside from admit that he listened to Jaskier masturbating multiple times; that was pretty surprising. Not that he listened, but that he _admitted_ it. Quite uncharacteristic.

“You smelled like lust, and then you spoke, and now you smell surprised,” Geralt says. He sounds miserable about it. Jaskier can guess why; Geralt has a martyr complex stretching for acres.

“Geralt,” he says gently, and again it comes out so much lower than he means it to, “I’m surprised because I’m feeling things I can’t anticipate, that’s all. I’m not afraid of it. Maybe if it were someone else I’d be a little apprehensive, but not with you. Listen to my heartbeat if you don’t believe me.”

For once, Geralt actually – wonder of wonders – obeys him and listens. It’s true: Jaskier _isn’t_ afraid anymore. He trusts Geralt more than anyone in this world, ill-advised as that may be, and if he has to go through this weird, thrilling new experience there’s no one else he’d rather go through it with.

“You’re not afraid,” Geralt confirms, wonderingly. “Why?”

Jaskier feels a strange compulsion to trace his fingers over the swell of Geralt’s bicep and up over his shoulder towards his neck, not at all like the practiced motions he’s grown accustomed to with other lovers. So he does it, and when Geralt tilts his head up just the slightest amount in permission, there’s absolutely nothing he can do in response to such an astonishing show of unconscious trust but cup Geralt’s jaw in his palm and reply in kind – with words, because Jaskier has always been much better with words than physicality.

“Because I trust you. If I told you I didn’t want you, I know you’d be out of this bed in a second.”

“You did tell me you didn’t want me,” Geralt points out, his pulse jumping under Jaskier’s hand.

Jaskier smooths his thumb ever-so-carefully over the stubbled skin just below Geralt’s lip. Geralt exhales on a shaky breath and it’s the most beautiful thing Jaskier has ever heard. “And yet here we are.”

It was the wrong thing to say, because Geralt cringes away like Jaskier has just come at him with a knife, and the only thing that keeps him from falling off the bed is Jaskier’s sudden grip on his arm. He looks as though he’s prepared to apologize and then flee the room and never return, and regardless of whether Geralt ever makes a move or not, Jaskier will _not_ have him leave thinking he’s done something awful or traumatizing.

He gentles his hold, and Geralt doesn’t try to break it. “I realize it’s only been a month, but please trust me to know my own mind?”

“Okay,” Geralt says slowly. It’s clear he thinks this is a trap.

“Remember how I said I didn’t _think_ I wanted to sleep with you?”

Geralt’s wary expression only deepens. “Vividly,” he says, which he definitely didn’t mean to say, if the pained, guilty look that takes its place means what Jaskier thinks it means.

“Well, I’ve thought about it some more.”

Geralt looks like he’s been stabbed.

v.

Jaskier thinks he could look at nothing else but Geralt for the rest of his life and be content with that. Geralt is gorgeous, cutting jawline and silver hair and that broad, firm chest – so much firmer than Jaskier could have imagined in any of his furtive fantasizing, but now he’s gotten his hands on it and he never wants to stop touching it.

Everything he’s felt or imagined so far – Geralt’s torso pressed against his, Geralt’s hands on him, Geralt’s eyes watching him in the dark – is proving to be exactly as strange and wonderful and terrifying as he hoped it would be and he can’t get enough of it.

But what’s so much better than that is the way Geralt reacts to all of it. Jaskier has always liked people making happy, the softness in their eyes and the slight daze to their smiles that’s all _his_ doing. But this – this is different. Geralt breathes in sharply whenever Jaskier grips him a little tighter than he means to, and he full-on gasps when Jaskier slides a hand up into his hair and twines it around his fingers. It’s heady.

It makes Jaskier want to do all the things he’s ever done to previous lovers not for Geralt’s sake, but for his own. He wants to see that glaze in Geralt’s eyes, those blown-out pupils, because Geralt would look so _beautiful_ lust-drunk and happy. It’s almost entirely selfish.

It’s a new feeling.

Jaskier will stop to examine it later, probably, and maybe have a bit of a crisis over it, because he’s always considered himself a very selfless lover. But right now, in this moment, he will give in to that selfishness and do his best to pull those tiny, stifled gasps from Geralt’s lips.

Jaskier has always been a greedy man when it comes to Geralt, and it turns out that sex is no exception.

6.

Jaskier’s eyes, only a moment ago bright with arousal and a playful honesty, dim into concern.

“Do you want _me,_ Geralt?” he says. “I won’t push, if you don’t. I’m given to understand unrequited desire is a bit of a rite of passage.”

 _“Yes,”_ Geralt groans. It’s almost pulled out of him, an admission he didn’t want to make, but he can’t lie to Jaskier about this. Not now that Jaskier has put his own desires on the line, and not since he still smells so fucking good. “You don’t know what you do to me.”

Jaskier quirks a wry smile. “I think I might, actually.”

After so many years on the Path, Geralt is used to denying himself the rare things he wants. He’s not sure he’s ever wanted anything so much as he wants this. And if all that’s stopping him is the fear that Jaskier doesn’t –

Jaskier pulls him close. “I want this,” he murmurs, echoing Geralt’s thoughts. “Let yourself trust me; let go.”

There’s something in the smoothness of his words almost like bravado, which doesn’t make sense from a self-proclaimed perfect lover – until, abruptly, it does. This is Jaskier compensating; he may enjoy taking people apart, but now he’s using as it a crutch to fall back on since he doesn’t know how _he_ enjoys it.

If Jaskier really, honestly wants this from Geralt, Geralt will give it to him. There was never really any question of that. But he will give it to Jaskier the way Jaskier deserves.

“I trust you,” he says, and he lets the possessive rumble in his chest color the admission just to see Jaskier’s eyes go wide and pleased once more. “But I want _you_ to let go.”

Jaskier swallows, all bravado and practiced seduction tossed aside. “Okay, great, can do. But you’ll have to – I don’t know what I – you’ll have to show me how it’s supposed to –“

“Jaskier. I’ll show you,” Geralt promises, brushing aside a lock of hair that’s fallen into Jaskier’s eyes. He looks heartbreakingly young and unsure, and all Geralt wants is to hold him and shield him from all potential harm. This is a privilege he never thought anyone would afford him, and that it’s _Jaskier…_ it’s almost too precious to look at directly.

“Okay, yes, that’s – very much appreciated, Geralt, very generous of you. I don’t suppose you’d – know where to start?” Jaskier babbles.

“Hm.” Geralt noses along the column of Jaskier’s throat, just to check. Lust and excitement. And – something else? Friendship, but more. Not worrying, though, so Geralt will puzzle it out later. “Can I kiss you?”

Jaskier laughs, self-conscious and relieved and so beautiful and all Geralt’s. “Right, of course, the obvious starting – I should have known – yes, please, Geralt, of course you can kiss me.”

And… fuck. This feels so innocent, with both of them propped up on their elbows like young boys in a dormitory exploring the world of adult desire for the first time. Which it sort of is, for Jaskier. Well, then.

He brings his free hand up to mirror the hold Jaskier still has on his jaw and watches in fascination as Jaskier’s eyes flutter shut and he sighs into the touch. “You can kiss me right _now,”_ he says, bratty as ever, and so Geralt tips his head forward and does.

He means to keep it light to begin with so as not to overwhelm Jaskier, but Jaskier fists his hand in Geralt’s shirt to pull him closer with an amused huff against Geralt’s mouth that says he knows exactly what Geralt is trying to do. It ends with Geralt sprawled half atop Jaskier and Jaskier’s hands gripping his shoulders for dear life, and it’s intoxicating.

Fuck, Jaskier knows how to kiss, even if it’s a little too deliberate for Geralt’s liking. He told Jaskier to let go. But everything else about it seems to be unconscious; Jaskier is greedy, sighing and moaning and tugging at Geralt’s neck to pull him closer, teeth biting into Geralt’s lip and legs tangled with Geralt’s. Geralt is suddenly, blindingly hard.

So is Jaskier. Thank _fuck._

Jaskier pulls back, cheeks flushed and eyes gleaming bright behind the haze of arousal. “Fuck. Shit, Geralt, that’s… is it always like that?”

“Can’t say yes or no unless you elaborate,” Geralt points out and sets his teeth lightly against Jaskier’s pulse point, feeling it accelerate beneath his lips as Jaskier’s breath catches in his throat. “Use that big Oxenfurt vocabulary of yours.”

“Afraid I can’t, right at this very moment. I’m rather at a loss for words,” Jaskier gasps.

It’s working. Geralt’s possessive heart fucking _sings._ “Good.”

vi.

Jaskier is a menace. Geralt can reluctantly understand why so many people have risked the wrath of their significant others to experience it – and what a magnificent experience it is, truly. He arches and cries and pants when Geralt sucks his cock, and he _sobs_ when Geralt, in a fit of possessiveness, begs to be allowed to bite him. He pulls Geralt’s hair and swears and kisses like he’ll die if he stops.

Geralt is drunk on it.

Although it is _also_ very lovely to watch Jaskier trying and failing to just let himself _feel_. Geralt can see him analyzing, cataloging each new discovery to mull over later and presumably turn back on Geralt sometime in the near future. Hopefully.

Geralt is excited to be on the receiving end of that focus, if that’s what Jaskier wants to give him. But he’s just as happy to have Jaskier’s eyes on him and Jaskier’s scent warm and happy and aroused in his lungs. It’s almost better, actually. Sex is sex, but Geralt has always valued Jaskier’s companionship and his gentle regard more than any sex they could have. That’s no different now.

Jaskier looks at Geralt like Geralt is his whole world. It’s something so far beyond lust Geralt has no name for it, but it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. Jaskier has always looked at him like he’s worth more than the rest of the world thinks he is, but _this_ is so much more than that. Geralt will do everything in his power to ensure Jaskier never looks at him in any other way again.

And the way he smells – oh, yes, Geralt knows that smell. It’s not a smell he ever thought he’d find directed at _him_ , but he knows it, all right. _Love._ Impossible, but true. Geralt… can’t say he minds.

But just in case _Jaskier_ doesn’t know, he’ll keep it to himself for now.

7.

“Good?” Jaskier squeaks.

Geralt doesn’t answer right away, which is okay. The best part of this whole thing so far, Jaskier thinks, has to be the way Geralt growls, low in his throat like he wants to devour Jaskier. Then, unfortunately, he pulls away. “Finally some fucking quiet.”

It’s too dark to see whether he’s smiling, and Geralt’s voice is always low and gravelly and deadpan, so there’s no way to tell what he means. “Please tell me you’re joking,” Jaskier says, his own voice surprisingly hoarse, “or tell me you’re not joking so I know not to pester you about it.”

“Not joking,” Geralt says, ducking his head to speak the words into Jaskier’s neck, and _oh_ does that rumble do fascinating things to Jaskier’s insides. “Want to shut you up _properly_ for once. Or –“

He pulls away again, and this time Jaskier can see the uncertainty writ clear in the hesitant way he holds himself up on his forearms, the distance he keeps between the lower half of his body and Jaskier’s. “Or?” Jaskier prompts.

“I never hear you talk, when you take other people to bed. But in the woods, lately… you say my name.”

 _“Geralt,”_ Jaskier breathes. There is so much to unpack in that sentiment – not least the fact that Geralt has apparently spent years listening to Jaskier fuck people through paper-thin walls and this whole voyeurism thing is not new – but this is _exactly_ what he hoped for on the cold ground in the middle of the woods with Geralt’s quiet presence beside him. “How many times do I need to tell you I want you?”

“Probably lots,” Geralt says. “Thought I was making it up.”

Jaskier shakes his head frantically, the lock of hair Geralt so tenderly tucked behind his ear flopping back into his eyes, damp with sweat. He’s sweating and he’s done nothing but lie there; is that typical? It should be gross – before this moment he’d have said it _would_ be – but he doesn’t care about anything beyond Geralt propped up above him, hungry gaze on Jaskier’s lips like he wants to kiss them but wants to hear Jaskier say his name again more. “I hoped you’d hear it, imagined you _wanting_ to hear it, watching me – please, Geralt, let me look at you –“

Geralt makes a sound almost like a whine, higher-pitched than Jaskier even thought his voice could _go,_ and rears back onto his knees to strip his shirt off with an urgency that Jaskier feels down to his _bones._ And he’s beautiful, gods, Jaskier could look at him forever; will look at him forever, if Geralt lets him. He slides both hands up Geralt’s chest, tracing over scars and muscle and _nipples,_ wow, he’s never looked at someone’s nipples and thought that was sexy before.

Geralt laughs. “You smell surprised again.”

“I’m probably going to be doing a lot of that here,” Jaskier admits ruefully. “All good surprises, though.”

Geralt gazes down at him in what Jaskier thinks is concern, and yes, having those eyes on him in any context is exactly as good as Jaskier thought it would be. “But you’ll tell me if it changes?”

“I’ll tell you. Although you’ll probably smell it before I notice it,” Jaskier says, praying Geralt will hear it for the teasing it is this time and perhaps conveniently forget that the last time they talked about Geralt smelling things Jaskier didn’t realize himself it triggered a massive argument.

Geralt must, because he inhales deeply, almost reflexively, and his pupils go impossibly wide. That isn’t so much arousing as it is heartbreakingly sweet – and it’s _incredibly_ arousing, so the fondness that fills Jaskier’s chest at the thought that Geralt can’t help checking to make sure he’s okay is frankly unfair. And then Geralt smiles.

Jaskier is going to _perish_ of desire. “Do you like the way I smell?”

“All the time,” Geralt says, like the admission costs him. “But right now it’s… I can’t describe it.”

“You’ve always been a bit better with actions,” Jaskier agrees.

Geralt’s smile transmutes into a smirk, which Jaskier has never seen on his face before and which shouldn’t be as hot as it is, and then he snakes a hand into Jaskier’s pants and wraps it around Jaskier’s cock and upends Jaskier’s _world._ “Is that so?”

This is it, Jaskier thinks dazedly. This is what the rest of the world feels, and if he never feels it again that’s okay because this is _Geralt,_ and he is _never_ letting Geralt go now that he knows he can have this.

Geralt laughs, which means Jaskier must have said it out loud without realizing, the way people do in bawdy tales. It should be embarrassing, but Jaskier thinks he could probably get used to it. “There may be others –“

“I don’t care. If it happens again, so be it, I'll deal with it in the moment. If you're the only one… I’m glad it’s you,” Jaskier says firmly. “And lucky for you, I'm very easily impressed right now. Show me what you've got, Witcher.”

All things considered, Jaskier thinks fuzzily as Geralt proceeds to do exactly that, turns out this was not such a bad development after all.

**Author's Note:**

>  **BIG BIG BIG thematic warning up front:** This is a story about Jaskier coming to terms with experiencing sexual attraction, and by the end he views it as something he's _gained_ and considers that an improvement. I've tried very hard not to imply that being fully ace is something lesser, but we've all got internalized shit that bleeds into our writing so just be forewarned.
> 
> Neither Jaskier nor Geralt have any words for asexuality, so they end up talking about it in ways that are kind of insensitive -- tl;dr Geralt is hurt by the idea that Jaskier isn't attracted to him and Jaskier believes there's something wrong with him for not being attracted to people, and then feels guilty and uncomfortable about being attracted to Geralt. They argue about it. And _then_ Geralt kind of infantilizes Jaskier by assuming he doesn't know what he wants just because he's ace, but they talk it out in the end.
> 
> Everything that happens between Geralt and Jaskier is done with explicit, enthusiastic consent. At one point Geralt expresses concern that Jaskier hasn't wanted the sex he's had with other people, but it doesn't go into depth and Jaskier just feels a little weird about the suggestion.
> 
> It's never made clear what Jaskier's sexuality _actually_ is, so I tagged it as a couple things and you are free to come to your own conclusions!


End file.
